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Sunday || Simone Flournoy

Beauty has no jurisdiction in the sleepwalking morning.
Creaking joints and eyes not awoken from slumber quite yet
brave the day, unarmed and unassuming
the sun tickles the newborn sky until it’s ruddy.
A new day blushes and begins.

Windows fog with the heat from a whistling kettle.
Sugar, no milk.
Hands meet as newspaper pages crinkle,
eyes peering at tiny print, ears listening to the radio sing quietly.
The dog curls up under the table, falling asleep with a sigh.

Sit beside me; fear not if time seems to slip.
Birds reciting their morning prayers from the garden outside our windows
see the sky boast the bluest complexion and the perfect day,
a morning is the stuff of dreams, tangible promise.
I grasp my mug with two hands to take a sip and you ask: Pancakes or eggs?